From another yellowing envelope Dorothea extracts a sheaf of black and white photographs, curling up at the ends, a hair or two twisted among them. ‘Babies, this must be the babies envelope. This is. . . this is me, for heaven’s sake, aged nothing, in my mother’s arms.’
‘Don’t look so sad, it’s a lovely photo.’
‘She looks so loving, so proud – what did I ever do to make her proud? Except have a child. She liked my baby – you, my darling – and when she did those paintings of mythical infants, she used you as a model.’
‘It would be interesting to study how she prepared her paintings – mentally, how she used her own experiences.’
‘I don’t think she would have wanted people to analyse that. She was very private, was Irene.’